This post originally appeared in the June 15, 2018 edition of the WriterHouse Newsletter.
While summer is fabulous for beach reading and destination vacations, it’s also a great time to attend writing conferences. Whether you’re interested in getting started with a regional option, or you want to apply for one of the more prestigious conferences, the preparation required is similar.
Plan Ahead: Some conferences, like VQR, The Writers Hotel, Bread Loaf, and Sewanee require applications. If you’re interested in the conferences listed above, 2019 applications will open in January; however, the Key West Literary Seminar is currently accepting applications. Even if you’re not interested in a conference that requires an application, planning ahead is important. Most conferences offer early-bird registration discounts and discounts on preferred hotels. And, if you ask around, you may find someone in the area looking for a roommate who can split hotel costs.
Pack Smart: Beyond business casual clothes and comfy travel shoes, you’ll want to pack business cards that include your name, email address, website, and social media handles so you can exchange them with your new conference BFFs. Days can be long and travel meals costly. Pack light snacks for your conference bag. Find out if any meals are included with your conference fee. If there’s a refrigerator or microwave in your room, consider bringing breakfast items like yogurt or oatmeal so you can save a few bucks. Also, be sure to download any conference apps and join the conference Facebook pages so you stay up-to-date on conference happenings.
Establish Networking Goals: One of the big payoffs for conference attendance is the ability to meet writers from other parts of the country who can share resources, serve as beta readers, and cheer you on. But let’s face it, many writers are introverts and networking can be exhausting. (Personally, my people shelf is narrow and quickly fills). Before you leave, set a conference goal to ensure you get the most out of this networking opportunity. At every conference, I try to exchange business cards with at least five attendees and talk to at least one presenter. If you have a book-length project, pitching to agents can be another great way to network. Find out if pitching is an option at any conferences you’re interested in attending and whether these opportunities require additional costs.
Pace Yourself: Attending a conference is like running a mini-marathon. Don’t be afraid to take breaks. If possible, stay in the conference hotel so you have easy access to your room between sessions. Study the conference schedule and decide what’s most important for this trip. For example, at one conference, it may be important to get a good night’s sleep so you can sharply answer early-morning agent questions. At another conference, stretching yourself by reading at the evening open mic may be the right option. Most conferences are annual, so you can always return if you feel like there’s something you missed.
Evaluate Your Experience: Your conference dollars are valuable. Be sure you’re getting the most out of the experience. One week after you return from the conference, fill out any evaluation forms provided by the organizers then ask yourself the following questions:
Am I inspired?
Do I feel connected?
Did I learn something new?
If you can’t answer yes to all three questions, consider whether a genre-specific conference or a more challenging option is a better fit.
For a complete list of conferences, check out the AWP website.
On forty-fourth birthday, I hiked into a volcano. This happened during an early-April bucket list trip with my husband to the Big Island of Hawaii. A recovering adrenaline junkie with a deep love of adventures, I’d dreamed of standing next to a lava river or perhaps watching a lava fountain rise in the air for years (from a safe distance, of course). Since it was my birthday, I felt certain this would happen.The Hawaii Volcanoes National Park includes a series of craters–some erupted in the past while others, like the Halema‘uma‘u Crater, are still active. Our first stop was the Jaggers Museum observation deck. The lava lake in the Halema‘uma‘u Crater was high, and despite the miles between me and the crater, I could see faint lava bubbles pop in the air. Volcanic heat pressed against my skin. (Birthday luck, check one).
When we left the observation deck, we drove a few miles along Crater Rim Drive then hiked through a lush rainforest and into the Kīlauea Iki Crater lava lake. Cars lined the trailhead parking lot giving the air of calculated risk. We laughed at the signs warning of instability and steam vents.
Sign on the rainforest trail into Kīlauea Iki Crater
Inside the crater’s Martian landscape things got real. The largely barren, brownie-batter-like floor was surrounded by high cliff walls. Steam plumed from broken rocks resembling frozen waves. Signs warned us not to veer from the rock-pile-marked trail. Lava could bubble up, after all. If something happened, escape would be difficult.
A mile in, rain battered me. Instead of turning back, I knelt on the lava floor and felt the pulsing volcanic heat—another reminder that while the surface may hold me, a magma river flowed beneath my feet. I was in adventure heaven.
When we returned to the Halema‘uma‘u Crater at sunset to view the lava lake’s nightly show, the vibrant lava and ash against the twilight and the thrill of being so close to such a magnificent force made me forget my sore feet and soaked clothes. While my spurting lava wishes weren’t granted, the experience met all my birthday criteria. Thank you, Mt. Kilauea.
Inside Kīlauea Iki Crater Halema‘uma‘u at night
We left Hawaii on April 14, 2018. Over the next two weeks, Mt. Kilauea rumbled. Lava continued to rise. On May 3, 2018, the Pu’u O’o crater collapsed. Pressure built underneath the surface. Spontaneous eruptions broke apart subdivision roads, sending lava fountains hundreds of feet high. That spectacular show I’d witnessed only a few weeks earlier was not the gentle entertainment of a cat-napping giant. It was the precursor to a major eruption.
Like all things, this reminded me of the writing process. As writers, we come to the page ready to entertain and enlighten. But once there, we need to figure out how to approach our stories. Should we stand on the observation deck or hike into the crater?
Many writers start their drafts on the observation deck—viewing the story from afar. They tell what happened. I went on an exciting trip to Hawaii. We hiked in into a crater then viewed the lava lake at night. It was awesome. There’s nothing wrong with starting here if that motivates you to write, but the excitement happens while you stand inside the volcano, not while you’re looking at one. Readers want to feel your fear, anger, and excitement. They want to smell the steam and feel the rock. To do this, your work must come alive. In writing, the walk into the crater is often called writing in scene. Richard Roorbach, author of Writing Life Storiesdefines scenes as “events that take place in a specific time and place. Scenes record events, actions, talk, stuff happening.” It’s the cinematic version of the lived experience. Or, to put it simply, it’s showing rather than telling.
Whether you’re writing a memoir or a short story, showing is essential. But how do you know if you’re doing this? Set a timer for twenty minutes, write without stopping, and see what happens. After you’re done, ask whether the work reads like you’re reliving the experience or like you’re telling it from your armchair. If you’re reliving events, you’re hiking the crater. Keep this up.
If the work feels observational, see if you can choose a specific memory to fully render. Fill it with sights, smells, and sounds. Add some dialogue. If this feels like a challenge, get curious about why you’re standing on the observation deck. Are you having trouble remembering exactly what happened? Is the topic so emotionally charged it feels painful? Are you unsure where to begin?
If memory is the problem, look through a photo album and find a picture that evokes strong feelings (for fiction choose a magazine photo). Show what happened directly before the photo was snapped. Where are the characters? Who is there? Why are they taking this picture? Repeat this exercise until you get a sense of who your narrator is and what she’s after. Once you’ve exhausted your pictures, create a physical map of your story’s setting, as Richard Roorbach suggests in his book. You can also listen to music from the era you’re writing about to evoke new memories, but don’t forget the power of smell and taste. Follow Marcel Proust’s lead and eat something from the period you want to capture. As you taste that familiar dish, recreate the scene where you ate it. Who was there? What was going on? How did it feel in your mouth? The more you write, the more you’ll remember.
If, as you’re writing, the work brings up painful feelings or the events you want to write about include trauma, break the experience into smaller parts. Be sure to list the pleasant scenes as well as the dark ones. Include dark humor and events where the narrator received help from others. Choose the least painful scene as your starting point. Write for twenty minutes and see how you feel. In a couple of days, repeat the exercise. If it’s still difficult, write from the observation deck until you develop comfort with the subject. If that doesn’t work, write about something else.
If you’re not sure where to start, follow Kurt Vonnegut’s advice and make your character thirsty. Let his first search be for a glass of water.
In an interview for Writing Hard Storiesby Melanie Brooks (a must-read for any memoirist), Andrew Dubus says, “just because we know what happened doesn’t mean we know what the hell happened.” I would argue that until we create vivid scenes for our stories, what happened isn’t even clear. That’s why hiking the crater is so important.
Mastering the scene in your early drafts will illuminate what happened. Along the way, you’ll begin to realize what the hell happened. Sprinkle it in, but remain open to new interpretations. More insightful reflections may arise as you read your complete draft or learn more about the situation. You never know. Life may happen, just as it did at the Hawaii Volcano National Park, giving you a new perspective. Your trips into the crater may begin as a spectacular birthday adventure only to turn into a cautionary tale on luck.
The air stings my cheeks as I walk the same four blocks I’ve trudged all winter, taking yet another break from my writing. “Yo, HP (this is what I call my higher power), am I crazy for doing this?” I say this into the wind and follow with my typical barrage of questions. Am I crazy for believing I have a book inside me? Am I crazy for writing all these words then cutting them only to write some more? How will I know when it’s good enough? When will I get comfortable?
After my questions, I always ask for the same thing: send me a sign.
In my mind, a sign is a book deal or someone important praising my work. But HP is stingy with messages that stroke my ego. Instead, a bluebird crosses my path signaling it will all be ok. Later, a conversation with a fellow writer settles my doubt, at least for a little while. But comfortable? I get about an hour of that per year. Always in short doses.
Discomfort is the inevitable sidekick of the writing life. Frequently appearing as doubts, discomfort motivates us to see the world from different angles. It makes us question our assumptions, review our work, and develop email refresh habits. It can make us feel anxious about possible rejections and relieved when we get them. Out of control doubt is crazy-making. But right-sized doubt can motivate us to develop humility, work a little harder, and remain lifelong learners. In fact, that tense, shaken-and-stirred place is where the creative magic happens if we can maintain a sense of balance.
There are three forms of doubt all writers face—doubts about claiming to be a writer, doubts about the writing path, and doubts about the quality of one’s work. If you let these doubts rule your life, they’ll kick your passion to the curb and leave your desk littered with paper balls. Resignation letters may follow as you accept the very lies they tell you about your inability to write anything at all. After all, doubt will have you believe every evening real writers place piles of beautifully crafted error-free pages on their oak credenzas (whatever they are) while awaiting the next award. But you? You’re a pile shuffler with more ideas than answers, and time is not always your friend.
For a long time, I wanted to knuckle punch my doubts on the way out the door. But a few years ago, a wise yoga instructor told me what we resist persists. She said I needed to discover and embrace the benefits of my doubts. So, I decided to listen. Embracing my doubts hasn’t taken away my discomfort, but it allows me to accept that doubt has a place in my writing life. Being a writer means choosing to be uncomfortable. If you think about it, how can we write about the thing that keeps us up at night if we don’t have something serving that function? Doubt makes sure you do. The key is praising doubt for its gifts without letting it run the show.
Strategies for Managing Doubt
Balance doubts with affirmations. Find a few you like or print your favorite ones from the list below. Tape them to your desk. Better yet, frame a few and hang them on your wall. You can also follow Brene Brown’s suggestion and create a playlist of anthems you can take into your writing arena. Anthems are songs that help you tap into your courage and strengths. My current favorites include “Ordinary Heroes” by the Foo Fighters, “Do You Realize” by the Flaming Lips, and “Beautiful” by Christina Aguilera. Occasionally, I’ll add a few Sex Pistols tunes to my mix because dark and dirty also pumps me up.
Set an intention for every writing project. Make it something personal, meaningful, and unrelated to publishing. The best intentions involve thinking, feeling, or believing something different about yourself. For example, when I wrote In the Land of Flood and Slaughter I wanted to heal from Lyme disease and forgive my mother. When I received rejections or feedback that required me to do something difficult, these intentions gave me the courage to keep going.
Build a writing community that includes mentors who can give you guidance, colleagues who can commiserate and encourage, and mentees who can benefit from your experience. This will teach you how to give and receive the encouragement and wisdom needed to tell your most important stories. While you’re at it, select one or two special writing friends to serve as writing buddies who can keep you accountable and provide feedback on your work.
Set simple, small goals. Writing 2 – 4 times per week for five minutes may make you more productive than telling yourself you’ll write every day for an hour. Small goals are easier to accomplish. Plus, studies have shown that short bursts of work can propel you into a state of flow, that lovely state of hyperfocus where time and space slip away. When you meet a writing goal reward yourself. This can be as simple as saying, “Good job writer,” basking in the feeling of having written, or sending an email to your writing buddy saying mission accomplished.
Learn to trust your gut. In his video “The Taste Gap,” This American Life host Ira Glass talks about the gap we all have between our excellent taste (as in the beautiful, fully formed stories in our heads) and our talent. Sometimes the doubts tugging at your gut are simply signals that you’re approaching the gap. If you can learn to trust that feeling, you’ll be able to target areas for improvement. To use doubt wisely, print two copies of your work. On one copy, highlight the areas where you’re feeling the greatest sense of doubt. Give the other copy to a writing friend and ask for feedback. Don’t tell them about the first copy. Afer the critique compare the two copies. Does the feedback match your doubts? If it does, then you know your gut is serving you well. If it doesn’t, maybe you’re not giving yourself enough credit. Pay attention to your affirmations and keep writing.
Talk back to your doubts. Get out your journal and do a little automatic writing. Set a timer for 15 minutes. Write down the following question: Doubt, what do you want me to know? Write whatever comes to mind. If you can, use your nondominant hand. Don’t stop until the timer goes off. If you run out of thoughts, write the word thinking until the next idea comes to you. You’ll be surprised to find out what’s really going on.
Develop a gratitude practice. Some people start and end the day by writing down three things they’re grateful for. At the end of each writing session, writer Andre Dubus used to write the words thank you. The more you pay attention to what’s working, the more you’ll be able to counter what’s not.
If none of these suggestions work, go for a walk and ask your higher power, your creative self, or a trusted friend the questions your doubts are bringing to the surface. When you’re done, ask for a sign, or better yet a happy surprise, then keep writing and be on the lookout for something good
*This post also appeared in the April 17, 2018 edition of the WriterHouse Newsletter
This essay was originally published in the January 31st edition of the WriterHouse Newsletter.
In 1993, the movie Groundhog Day was released in cinemas. If you’ve forgotten the movie’s premise, here’s a recap. Phil Connors, an arrogant Pittsburg weatherman played by Bill Murray, is assigned to cover the Groundhog Day celebration in Punxsutawney, Pennsylvania—home of the famous Punxsutawney Phil. The next day he finds himself in a time loop, repeating the same miserable day over and over. And, because it’s a comedy, hilarity ensues.
I enjoyed Murray’s irreverence and the director’s use of the radio to cue the time loop. But what I remember most about the movie is that while each day was a repeat of the one before, we as viewers perceived them differently based on the details.
In Fearless Confessions: A Writer’s Guide to Memoir Sue Silverman writes, “you’ve all heard the cliché ‘A picture is worth a thousand words,’ but it’s also true—maybe more true—that one word is worth a thousand pictures if it’s the right word.” She says we need to tell it slant—as in not just rendering what happened, but flavoring what happened by choosing precise sensory details that create the right emotional tone.
Silverman’s book is full of helpful exercises, such as writing about a first (as in the first day of school, a date, a love, or house) and slanting the details to reveal how you feel, or writing a physical description of yourself that reveals the inner you.
My favorite exercise on telling it slant comes from Dinty Moore’s book The Story Cure. He suggests writers choose a house they once lived in and describe it from the perspective of a character who’s just returned from war. Once you’re done, describe the same house from the perspective of a character who’s just fallen in love. Read both pieces and pay attention to how the light, color, and sounds differ? Which items are emphasized? Which ones are ignored?
You can modify this exercise by writing or revising scenes while listening to music. Many writers find lyric-free movie soundtracks work best. If you’re not sure where to find them, try iTunes or Spotify. Just for fun, take a scene you’ve written, (perhaps about one of Silverman’s firsts) and re-write it while listening to the soundtracks for Manchester by the Sea, Star Wars, and The Perks of Being a Wallflower. When you finish, examine the details in your drafts. How did the music influence your writing? Which soundtrack seemed like the right fit?
If you’re not sure what soundtracks might work best, consider the following suggestions:
When it comes to telling it slant, experimentation is key. Rarely do writers find a detail worth a thousand pictures on their first try. Often, our work looks like the movie Groundhog Day—drafts of the same day written again and again. Rather than thinking of these drafts as failures, see them as opportunities—each version a tuning fork you’ll ring to your scene’s perfect tone.
Today is the twenty-one-year anniversary of my brother’s suicide. Twenty-one years. On his twenty-first birthday, I planned to take him skydiving. I was researching drop zones, having already made ten jumps myself. I couldn’t wait to give him the thumbs up as he scooted to the open doorway and prepared to leave a perfectly good airplane for the first time. To free fall and experience the vast silence of the sky.
On his twenty-first birthday, I stood with family members around the patch of tender new grass marking his grave plot and sang happy birthday to the wind, hoping he would stop freefalling long enough to relieve the silent wringing of my heart. We placed a cake made of flowers by his plaque (his gravestone was still on order) and released balloons that floated skyward—to the air I wanted us to touch together.
During the hardest times, before and after my parents’ divorce, my twin brothers and I were inseparable. That life was short, was a certitude we never forgot. Deep in our marrow, we knew at least one of us wouldn’t survive to adulthood, that this short childhood was our only gift. We made each day an adventure—the good ones epic victories, the bad ones battles to surmount. We didn’t always behave wisely (there were way too many fires) or do the right thing, but we captured what we could, even during the darkest of times.
I’d forgotten that lesson just before Joe’s death. Busy adulting and trying to get ahead, I worked sixty-hour weeks and let important events slide. During the January before he died, Joe and I chatted on AOL during the nascent days of the public internet. We almost always said I love you at the end of our sessions.
I say almost because the last time we were kicked off early and never reconnected. Had I known this was the last time, I would’ve tried harder. I would’ve made sure he knew how I felt. I would’ve stayed up all night trying to get online or braved a long-distance call I couldn’t afford.
Rarely do we know it’s the last time.
Most days we expect to wake up along with the rest of the world. Our time feels endless. Since Joe’s death, I’ve operated as if any day could be my last, paying attention, sucking the good out of life and seeing the challenges as cinematic battles I’ll one day conquer. I say I love you, even if it means no one else will.
Courses in grief are a human requirement we can neither drop nor escape. A year doesn’t go by when I don’t cry at least a couple of minutes on this anniversary or his birthday. Nor does a year go by when I don’t hear his cackle in my laugh or see the outline of his face in mine and light up with joy.
After Joe’s death, I made three more jumps out of perfectly good airplanes. Each time, I carried the heaviness of his ghost in my jumpsuit and said, “This one’s for us.” I imagined us sharing the harness, him probably complaining that the straps were ball crushers, but also hitching his breath as he experienced an unencumbered view of the earth from sky—reveling in how at sunset mist rises to the sky, how heights are relative above 1,000 feet, and how we’re all just specks from up high.
For everyone who reads this, may your courses in grief teach you about abundance and love. I love you for all that you are and all that you will be. May you find comfort in knowing your sorrows are equivalent to your love. Each wave of grief is an opportunity to experience the preciousness of life and to love again. And may you enjoy this song. Listen to it, sing it, and pass it on. Namaste.
A version of this post was published in the January 5th edition of the WriterHouse newsletter.
On New Year’s Day, 1985, I wrote down a list of goals for the new year and promised to do this until the year I die. Thirty-two years have passed. Every year, I faithfully sit on my bed and read past resolutions before creating new ones. I keep them in a pink fiberboard jewelry box my great-grandmother gave me. The earliest resolutions were oragamied into squares teens of a certain decade will recognize.
Over the years, resolutions have included travel plans, getting a boyfriend, skydiving from 10,000 feet, and being kinder to others. Some were completely unrealistic, like be 100% happy all the time, while others were easily achieved. Goals I met received stars or checks. Unmet goals were left for another year. From an early age, being a published writer made the list. For a very long time, it remained unchecked.
As I completed this year’s ritual, I realized many of my early goals were beyond my control (like the whole boyfriend thing). Much of our writing lives—like whether our submissions are read, accepted, or liked—are also out of our control. In many ways, writing down published writer was like getting a boyfriend. I could write it down, but I couldn’t make it happen.
So, what is in my control?
The work and only the work.
I can commit to writing or revising a certain number of pages, learning new skills, or making a certain number of submissions. I can register for classes and conferences and make new writing friends. Some people I know are also making rejection goals, which we all know is much easier than publication ones. (By the way, mine is 29.)
But more important than setting goals is creating a plan for accomplishing them. Over the years, I’ve discovered my plans always include the following elements:
A breakdown of mini-tasks required to meet my big goal
A schedule for completing these tasks
A support team who will help me stay accountable. Often this includes classmates and members of writing groups.
One big reward and a series of small ones to celebrate the milestones along the way
A self-care plan
A letter of intention that addresses how I want to feel, think, or believe once I’ve completed this goal. I write this in the present tense as if the goal has already been achieved.
A mantra, or positive phrase I can say to myself when things get tough
A list of encouraging phrases and quotes from authors I can use as inspiration
A gratitude jar for all the gifts along the way.
At the end of my yearly ritual, I create my plan and carefully refold the yellowing pages written decades ago. Then I say thank you for all of them, even the ones I never accomplished.
What goals have you set for yourself?
What do you need to make them a reality?
How can I help?
On October 1st, I started the fourth draft of my memoir by channeling George Saunders. I’d recently watched his interview on Late Night with Seth Myers. During that interview, Saunders explained how his editorial process shows respect for his readers and love for his characters. He sees each revision as an act of love.
I need to cut 25,000 words from my fourth draft. That’s a lot of love.
Over the past few months, I’ve read The Story Cure by Dinty Moore, attended Hippocamp, and read a number of blog posts on making good writing great. Here are some of the strategies I’ve learned.
Examine your character arc: Good memoirs are about transformation. Many writers outline the narrative arc for their books and have a good sense of how the plot moves forward. But it’s also important to outline the character arc, or how the character changes over time. Outlining the character arc will help you refine your plot and delete tangential scenes.
Drop the backstory: As a teenager, I loved Stephen King’s novels. But there was one problem. Every book contained between 50 – 200 pages of backstory on his main characters. Talk about skim city. Modern readers are impatient. And let’s face it, few of us are Mr. King. In the Writer’s Digest article “How to Weave Backstory into Your Novel Seamlessly,” Folio agent Jeff Kleinman says, “In almost all cases if it’s backstory, it needs to be cut.” My new rule of thumb: if it doesn’t affect a character’s decisions or reappear in the story, it goes.
Examine the weight of each scene: All scenes are not equal. Some contain vital moments that hold the essence of your work. Others just move the plot forward. Consider the work each scene is doing. Compress essential but undramatic scenes so you can make room for the ones that really count.
Replace adjectives and adverbs with active, strong verbs.
Nix Useless Words: Diane Urban has a blog post that contains 43 words to remove from your work. While you can make a case for keeping some of these words, each one you keep should earn its place in your manuscript.
Read your work out loud. Pour yourself a cup of tea and get to work. There’s no substitute for doing this, no matter the length of your work.
Find a second pair of eyes: We all become blind to our manuscripts’ flaws. Talented beta readers and editors can help you kill your darlings so your stars can shine.
George Saunders is right. Since October 1st, I’ve cut over 7,000 words from the first two sections of my book. I already feel more loving toward my characters and the scenes I’ve decided to keep. With some persistence and a lot of tea, I’ll scrap the next 18,000 with ease. Imagine the love I’ll feel for my work. Imagine the love you’ll feel for yours.
This post was originally published in the November 2, 2017 edition of the WriterHouse newsletter.
There are the stories we tell about our lives and the stories we discover if we’re brave enough to ask questions. “Re-Examining the Stories We Tell About Our Lives — A Conversation with Memoirist Sharon Harrigan” is an interview with Sharon Harrigan, author of Playing with Dynamite that was published in Huffington Post.
–Originally Published in the August 18, 2017 Newsletter for WriterHouse
“Don’t be afraid to be confused. Try to remain permanently confused. Anything is possible. Stay open, forever, so open it hurts, and then open up some more, until the day you die, world without end, amen.” ― George Saunders, The Braindead Megaphone
At noon on Saturday, August 12th, I sat in a meditation session with twenty-five other people. Cloistered in a yoga studio, we silently practiced loving kindness meditation while sirens blared and helicopters flew overhead. By the time the event ended, chaos had enveloped our downtown. Roving bands of angry men carrying shields and batons walked the city streets. Heather Heyer was dead.
The scene and the sounds were shocking. I couldn’t believe what was happening to my beloved city. By the time I made it home and turned on the news, the gravity of the situation began to sink in. The events were so terrible, I walked around in fugue state for days afterward. It was difficult to concentrate, let alone write. Eventually, I realized my heart had temporarily closed.
Maybe you felt that way too. Or, maybe you were courageous enough to pick up your pen, ready to channel the difficult feelings tragedies evoke.
As I’ve mediated about how to live up to George Saunders quote, I’ve reviewed all the practices I’ve learned and taught over the years. As a way to move forward, I thought I would share a few with you.
Write your stormy first draft: Write without censorship. Let the child have its way so you can feel what you feel. Snot bubble cry if you need to. Remember, this draft is only for you.
Find a way to get some distance from your work: Put that draft in a drawer. Burn a copy so the ashes can float freely on the wind. Make lists of what it’s all about. Distance will help you make meaning from your work, which is essential.
Write about the heroes as well as the heartache: While it may be true that if it bleeds it leads, resilience is based in hope. Saturday’s events may have brought out the worst in some people, but for others, it brought out the best.
Get spiritual: This doesn’t necessarily mean religious. Spirituality is simply the way we make meaning and find hope. Dial in to community and all that is good and just in the world. If you do nothing else, allow your mind a few minutes to be still. If you’d like some resources regarding self-compassion, check out Kristen Neff’s website.
Take time outs: While it’s great to process these events and work toward justice, it’s also important to take breaks. Write about difficult feelings for no more than twenty-minutes at a time. Walk in nature. Find activities that sustain you. Life is a marathon, not a sprint. Treat it like one so you can, to quote Reverend Alvin Edwards (a speaker at Heather Heyer’s memorial), wear out rather than rust out. In other words, don’t let the writing life become so intense you bow out.
Be well, my writing friends. Find hope. Build unity. Keep showing up. Your beautiful words have tremendous value.
Last spring, I bought a new house with a landscaped front yard. By the end of summer, fifty percent of the boxwoods had died. Last weekend, we finally replaced those dead bushes with some blue hydrangea and daisy gardenias. (Yeah, I’m that neighbor.) The gardenia bushes were already flowering when we bought them even though it’s only mid-spring and they’re typically summer bloomers. On the way home from the nursery, the flowers’ perfume enveloped my car, bringing up images of my grandmother.
I could practically hear her stories about the good old days in the Bronx of her youth, her Os twisting into that tight “oi” sound as she set the stage for life in 1935. Gardenias were her favorite flowers. She wore them to high school dances, the blooms so sweet she didn’t need any eau’ de toilet. By the time I was born, my grandmother no longer left the house. This nostalgia was the only travel she allowed herself.
When I was invited to my first dance, I asked for a gardenia corsage. My nervous date had chosen a wrist arrangement, either fearing he’d stab me in the boob or touch one, probably a bit of both. Throughout the night, I smelled that flower and thought of debutants swinging to big band music in spring-colored taffeta. Afterward, I gave it to my grandmother so she could relive her debutant days. She showed me how to preserve it.
I’m a big fan of cathectic objects, or as T.S. Elliot calls them objective correlatives. An objective correlative is an object, place, or character that objectifies an emotion. Think Boo Radley in To Kill a Mocking Bird, or money in Junot Diaz’s essay of the same name. I also like to think of William Carlos William’s “Red Wheelbarrow”—when done well, so much depends on that object’s presence.
My favorite example of the objective correlative comes from Tim O’Brien’s The Things They Carried, a collection of linked short stories about an American platoon during the Vietnam War. Throughout the book, the objects soldiers carry reflect the weight of war and soldier’s hopes and fears. In the title story, First Lieutenant Jimmy Cross carries letters from Martha, a girl from New Jersey. Each night he reads them, imagining a life beyond the jungle. The meaning of the letters shifts over the course of the letters from a source of hope to one of betrayal even though the content of the letters remains untouched.
All effective objective correlatives evolve over the course of a story, though their meaning doesn’t need to be so dreary.
In Wild, Cheryl Strayed’s backpack, Monster, feels like an homage to O’Brien. The pack is filled with both physical and emotional weight. As her hike progresses and the pack lightens, so does Monster’s meaning.
So, how do you create an objective correlative in your work?
• Read as much as you can and notice which objects stand out to you. Ask yourself what the object means and it functions in the story.
• Write as much as you can, organically and without purpose. If you start with the goal of creating a great objective correlative, it will feel forced. Instead, mine your work for diamonds sitting just below the surface. Trust that your subconscious mind is wise and will place the right objects for you.
• Once you’ve finished a piece, circle all the objects in it.
• Notice which ones repeat. Objects that repeat typically have some emotional meaning, even if that meaning is unconscious.
• Make a list of potential meanings and emotions associated with repeated objects.
• Once you’ve established your cathectic object, use precise details to convey that meaning or emotional resonance. For example, consider the associations one might make with a threadbare canvas wallet held together with duct tape versus a patent leather one.
• Examine your story’s narrative arc and how the narrator is transformed. Consider whether the details around that object change too. If they don’t, think about whether they should.
• Be careful not to overdo it. Readers don’t like to be hit over the head with symbolism. A good objective correlative works in the background. Its meaning is subtle.
Like all craft techniques, this one takes practice. If you’re unsure where to start, go to a local florist or garden center and ask to smell the gardenias, or any flower that elicits a bit of nostalgia. If the clerks look at you funny, just tell them you’re a writer. It won’t change the look on their faces, but it might make you feel more official.
